


Lightless Laments

by BlackPencilKitten



Series: Loqi Week 2018 [3]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Depression, Gen, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Racism, Suicidal Thoughts, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-12
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-07-11 16:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15976100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackPencilKitten/pseuds/BlackPencilKitten
Summary: In a world without darkness, without a way to contain and care for every survivor, was there a point in being alive when others needed what he had?He didn't know anymore.





	Lightless Laments

**Author's Note:**

> Day Three Prompts: Pain and/or World of Ruin

A line in the notebook, joining hundreds of others to mark the passage of another night. Maybe it would be called a day, if it ever existed. The ticking of a clock fills the silence of the room, while conversation and chaos continues outside. Survivors coming into Lestallum struggle to find lodging among the thousands upon thousands of others, room sparse between the injured and healthy, civilians and hunters. Lestallum may be a beacon against the eternal night, but even it strains to hold the weight of the world in its walls.

In one of the rooms of the Leville Hotel, blood stains bed sheets, calling it home as it refuses to be washed out. Equally bloody tissues overflow the trashcan by the nightstand, some littered on top next to a polished sword and dagger. Armor sits in a pile on the floor, ditched the moment its owner entered the room. Once upon a time it was held up upon an armor stand, in a room full of machine parts, crumpled up notes, and official documents.

Once upon a time, Eos had been alive, daytime had been a word, and Niflheim, Insomnia, and Altissia had stood proud. Lestallum held festivals instead of the world’s population, the land held life instead of bodies, light was natural instead of purely artificial.

That time had been one thousand, six hundred and seven days ago.

More than four years ago, the Oracle line died, the sun vanished, and daemons conquered Eos.

Once upon a time, an ex-general would’ve thrown their dagger at the clock, pissed off by its incessant ticking, a constant reminder of how slow time passes by. Rage had been their driving force, their motivation behind any and everything. Rage got them up the ranks of Niflheim’s chain of command, combined with precision and quickness to turn them into a force to be reckoned with.

Now, rage would get them kicked out of Lestallum. Who can trust a Niff after all they’ve done, after all the sins they committed? Who could let their guard down around one, when they fear they’ll be assassinated the moment they turn their back? Who especially can trust a Niff who had piloted a mech, something that murdered multiple people and is still capable of doing it, if they could ever get access again?

The answer comes in the form of a black eye, scars inflicted by something other than daemon attacks, and the lack of magical curatives, left only with basic first aid kits.

No one can.

_ “We must band together and put aside our differences and our pasts.” _

_ “Be careful, we have a  _ **_Niff_ ** _ around.”  _ A man says, whispering to his colleagues and not-so-subtly jabbing his finger towards his target. The others nodded, and there wasn’t a moment that passed without someone keeping an eye on  **‘the danger’** .

_ “Only through cooperation can we survive the upcoming years.” _

_ “Get the hell away from those supplies, you don’t think you actually  _ **_deserve any_ ** _ , do you?” _ All they wanted was a single apple, a single bandage, but as a dagger was thrown their way and nicked their ear, they backed off. They didn’t eat that night, or the night after, they didn’t  **deserve anything** .

Once upon a time, Loqi would’ve snapped back and tackled the other guy, see how confident he’d be when he’s covered in bruises and scrapes. No one travels alone anymore, though, and if he’s honest he’d be the one knocked out cold, robbed, and finally killed.

_ “Stay in your lane or get slain,  _ **_Niff_ ** _.”  _ With a dagger held against their neck, they could only stand in silence les they escalated the situation. Not even a minute later the one who threatened him was laughing amongst his friends to a dumb joke, like he hadn’t just ambushed someone in an alley.

As the clock ticked away, his thoughts lingered on that phrase. One less person meant one free room for people who needed, one less mouth to feed when food could be given to those who  _ deserved _ it, one less person to have bandages  **_wasted on_ ** .

There’s no one around to stop him, to rescue him from death’s door. There’s no ranking to maintain, no person to serve, no expectations to fulfill other than the ones he creates. People made it clear that they want nothing to do with him, and whether he was alive or dead they’d continue to judge, insult, and spread rumors. If he responded at all, he was overreacting, because what  _ should _ he expect if he shared his opinion? To actually be trusted, for it all to stop even though it was all deserved?

Really, he shouldn’t expect anything other than hate.

A burning sensation crawled along his arm, irritating the rows of cuts made from his own hand, using the very dagger he fought with to fight himself. Pain was the one thing he felt after all those years, a sharp contrast against what was otherwise a numb life. Nothing had meaning or purpose, other than to deny the inevitability of death, whether it be a day, a month, or years later.

The so-called ‘fulfillment of the prophecy’ was six years away, and there was no one to experience it with, who he even knew. Ravus was dead, Aranea nowhere to be found, and Ardyn was the explicit cause of this Long Night. He didn’t know the whereabouts of the Prince’s companions, and though Niflheim was destroyed he was sure they wouldn’t react kindly to seeing the enemy again.

He had to wrap his cut arm in the blankets to stop himself from scratching at them. Still, they burned and itched, and though he doubt his bitten nails could do much damage, he didn’t want to find out.

Though his wounds ached with every movement, Loqi still forced himself onto his side, his back to his weapons. He lacked the energy to grab his weapons to try and harm or kill himself in the first place, but that didn’t mean he wanted to directly face the temptation.

What few therapists that remained were backed up by months due to their demand, and even if he got a bit of help, there wasn’t enough resources to provide medication to everyone, at least to his knowledge. Besides, the lingering knowledge that  _ he didn’t deserve anything _ provided an excellent point: he couldn’t take supplies, time, and effort that should go to better men, better people, better  _ Lucians _ , really, just anyone that wasn’t him.

Loqi couldn’t change the past, and any changes he made to the future were minimal, useless. Nothing would make up for his mistakes, others would make sure of that, so why bother at all? Ending his life wouldn’t fix his mistakes, but it’d stop him from making more, and yet no matter how much he hurt or how much he wanted to, he couldn’t bring himself to follow through.

Some would call him pathetic for trying to sleep just to pass time, despite his active mind. He’d say they’re right. He should be doing something other than wallowing in his own problems, he could be working right now and helping people, and yet he wasn’t. They deserved to get the help they need, and he was doing nothing. That in and of itself was just another mistake added to his list, another reason to believe that he was nothing more than a waste of time, space, and supplies.

They deserved better.

So many people deserved better,  **_and he wasn’t one of them._ **


End file.
